My, how invigorating. I remembered you sightly. Brightly, like a canvas waiting to painted, prospective. White like this paper, innocent at hand. And spotless, no scratch marks or remarks. No
rubber shadows from hands that inscribed all the wrong things on the right slates of canvas. Clean and to the point. Discrete and distinct, but not. You’re seen every day, just wasting away. As
marks fill up your forte. And no rubber to erase the mistakes away. A crumpled pile in the bin among kin. What a waste.

Night:

I’ll only ever have so much potential; I will spew potential from every waking orifice of my body. And I will waste it all. I will cry away my potential. I will smoke away my potential. I will kill
my potential till my lungs are black, till my tear ducts shut. And I’ll only ever have so much potential. And I’ll only ever have so much to prove, and nothing to show for. But one thing to go for.
When one thing is over. When I am left over and willing to drop.